The Replacement Wife
by StitchGrl
Summary: Yes, he's dead. He's gone. And it was all Christine's fault.
1. Chapter 1

The Replacement Wife

_I want to be with those who know secret things or else alone._

_--__ Rainer Marie Rilke_

They were married in the cemetery on a musky spring night. She was unprepared when her fiancé stood beside her stoically through the ceremony, sparing few glances in her direction. She was still unprepared when her heart palpitated as he lifted her hand to slide the ring on her finger, but she was _most_ _certainly_ unprepared for the sudden physical contact when it came time to kiss the bride. His hands had reached towards her waist and pulled her close to him with an immediacy that caused her to cry out. He held her like that for a moment, and she smiled bravely as his cool green eyes settled on her and waited patiently for her to make a move. Precariously, her small fingers plucked around of edge of his mask and exposed in all the horror of their moonlit glory, those twisted, ravaged, ugly lips. She kissed them gently unsure whether she touched the upper or lower lip (it was hard to tell), and he'd sighed. He let her go.

He wasn't expecting fireworks. She was not_ she-who's-name-shall-not-be-spoken_, after all. But she was rather beautiful. Glossy raven-colored hair fell lusciously from her head, stopping right above her bosom (and a quite lovely one, he noted). Her lashes were unusually long and framed her eyes like that of a doll's. And he was quite partial to her mouth. It was small and red like a cherry, and he consistently had the urge to pluck it. He enjoyed it very much when she kissed him.

In the carriage on the way home, he slipped his hands upon her legs and pulled her to him, patting passionate kisses upon her chin and neck. She made sounds of pleasure, and wrapped her arms around him as they counted the seconds until they would be home. And when home came…well, let's just say they were lady and gentleman no more.

He had barely begun to untie her corset when there was a knock on the door.

"Who is it?" It seemed to him to be an appropriate question at the time, though he could not imagine actually being there. He was answered by another knock. Muttering a curse, he helped his wife into her dress and went to open the door, prepared to be displeased with whoever was behind it.

And he was right. Christine stared at them in horror. Her blonde hair was neatly pulled back into a bun and it appeared she'd injured herself on the way down and had been crying. Now, it appeared, she was about to cry some more.

"_What are you doing_?" She whispered hoarsely.

He lifted a very angry eyebrow. "That is none of your business."

"Have you forgotten me so quickly?"

"Hardly as quick as you, my dear," he said with reason, "From the moment you decided to run away with the lad, you moved on. I am a man with one terrible vice and it was you—I needed a replacement for my addiction, and I found her. It is hard to believe, but you are not the only woman in the world who will love me."

"No!" She exclaimed in absolute horror, her eyes darting quickly over his bride to him and back to his bride again. "How can you do this?"

"You have some _bloody gall_ coming into my house, uninvited, demanding an explanation, Christine. I don't owe you anything, and as I said before—go home."

She shook her head, crying, gasping, her head clasped between her palms. She made a motion to come into the room, and he moved his body to block her every time she advanced. He apologized to his wife right then for the intruder and seized Christine by the wrists, pulling her to the door.

"My dear, in case you did not notice, I have company. Very _special_ company. And I need you to get out of my house, and I will physically remove you myself."

"How are you being so cruel?" She asked, "Don't you love me? I thought I was the love of your life!"

"Well, perhaps I made a mistake." He shook his head. "But I cannot deal with this anymore, Christine. I want you out of my life."

She was hurt. She was shaking like she'd be hit and was about to go into a seizure. Yet she did not make any motion to leave. She could not. She felt so betrayed, disposable, disrespected, and beaten. She couldn't even look at the girl who stood behind him, the lovely, no doubt, disgusting tramp. Oh, she was bitter and vengeful indeed. She would have to show him that sweet little Christine was not afraid anymore. She had nothing to lose.

"I'm not ready to be out of your life."

This seemed to amuse him. "Well that is too bad, Christine. And it doesn't matter now. I will not be reciprocating any of your affections anymore. I am not going to be your lapdog so that you can kick me when I am down. I'm not going to wait for you to love me when you are weak, and throw me away when you run to your Raoul. I can gather you're here because the boy has made you unhappy and you wish to find solace and guidance to take your mind off him."

"That is not true," she said. "I came all the way here to—"

"Well if you think you're going to get a reward for that, then you're a fool. How many times have I gone to see you to give you lessons? I carried you the distance when you were asleep and I never touched you. I had to grow accustomed to the fact that I loved you and I could not hold your gloved hand. But it's not your fault that you don't love me. You cannot help that I'm ugly, and I don't hold that against you. I don't want anything from you anymore but for you to get out."

"I'm not leaving," she said between firm lips. "You don't know the sacrifice I've made to be here."

"Please, Christine." He sighed, his eyes finally tracing her tears. He always couldn't stand the sight of her crying. It made him physically ill. It felt like someone had taken a knife to his gut and begun to pull out his insides, one organ at a time. "Let's not make this any more unpleasant. You've interrupted me on my wedding night and I should have killed you if you'd been anyone else. Perhaps you can rest with the knowledge that I've bestowed you one last act of mercy."

"I haven't married Raoul."

He bit the inside of his lip, and made a dismissive motion with his hand. "I don't care, Christine. Can't you see that I'm not waiting for you to change your mind again? I don't want to waste the last years of my life worrying whether Christine is a little happy or tremendously sad. Whatever you do from now on is your business, and that includes marrying Raoul. He's a nice young man and I am sure he will take good care of you."

"Stop that, Erik. I can't go back."

"Do whatever you like. I really cannot to look at you anymore, Christine. You're making me very ill, and I must be getting back to my wife."

She had no intention to move.

"I'm not leaving." She said softly. She was awfully afraid he was going to drag her to the boat, but he did something worse. He simply stepped back and closed the door in her face.

She stood there, shocked and aghast, her blood pressure sinking and her knees getting weak and wobbly. She was sure she was about to have a heart attack, but she was strangely calm, like the eye of a hurricane—steady, aware, safe, while chaos swirled around her. She wanted to cry some more, but she could not. As soon as he was out of her sight, her tears dried at their own accord. His presence was that powerful.

She considered throwing herself in the lake, wondering if it would make him sorry to find her lifeless body in the water, but reconsidered. She realized she wouldn't be able to enjoy watching him cry—and that the whole ordeal would be worthless. Perhaps if she slit her wrists like the heroines in novels—but she was afraid to be too melodramatic. She was also afraid of the sight of blood, and if she fainted and lost too much of it, she was be unsuccessful again. She considered stealing his Don Juan to ensure his coming to find her—but that could very well make him even angrier. He did say his letting her go again was his last act of mercy. For a long time thoughts of every way to death came to her, but she realized she could not commit to any of them.

Finally, having given up on the possibility of suicide, she returned to the boat. But before she got in, she sank to her knees and prayed. She begged God to make Erik see that he'd made a mistake. She prayed that he'd realize that she was the one, and the only one who would ever truly make him happy. She prayed that he will regret all of this later. She prayed that he will find her again, and this time, they can start anew. She prayed for his happiness, and when it was all over and done with, she felt a strange sensation of peace.

Christine stepped into the boat, looking one last time at the second home that she'd loathed and grew to somehow miss. Her feet and hands were numb, and her face was very hot. She began to row, and for the first time, did not dread the darkness. It was the last time she was taking this ride, and she was going to enjoy it. The sound of the water rippled in her ear. The cold air gave her arms goose pimples, and she closed her eyes. For the first time in her life, she would be truly alone. She sucked in the unpleasant air as the words _I've made a terrible mistake_ repeated themselves in her head.

She shouldn't have killed Raoul for this.


	2. Chapter 2

_Where have all the good girls gone?_

_Here. Here._

_Here._

I detest stories that give too much information about the characters you don't care about. The kind of stories that give you names you would remember as well as that unwashed dish in your sink or the color of your socks last Tuesday, irrelevant creatures that take up too much space on the page and no space at all in your mind because you've forgotten them before the sentence was completed. Yes, there have been much wasted space in a good story, but this girl, this woman – this womanchild – is not that.

As Erik and Christine engaged in their heated debate outside of the bedroom, a womanchild waited curiously inside. Her name was Luci. That is not her real name. Her real name has been so diluded by the monikers she's gone by that she wouldn't turn to it if you were to call her by it. She is running her fingers through the smooth waves of her dark hair carefully as she listens intently to the conversation going on outside of the bedroom door. She glimpse down at her cleavage and suppresses a grin at the memory of those hands that were just admiring them. Her nipples itch with embarrassment and excitement. If breasts could blush, hers would.

Had you not known who Christine Daae was, you would be more intrigued about her than Luci ever was. Here is a girl who had no interest in opera, singers, Erik's other loves, or jealousy. She was focused on the present, and as she blushed and fell back into the plush coverlet, the present was Erik…whatever his last name was.

I know what you are thinking. Who is this girl? Where did he find her? Is she a whore? Be patient. I will answer these questions accordingly. Luci was born on a Wednesday night at the strike of twelve. I'm sorry. I couldn't help it. What did I tell you about wasted space? None of that information is important. That the correct way to get introduced to someone is to first ask the question you are most dying to know the answer to. In this case: Is she a whore? Yes. Yes, Luci is a whore. But she is not just any whore (the oxymoron is lost on you). She is the most sought after whore in Paris, and she was nearing thirty.

She was a late bloomer in the business late, you see, wasted her youth away (though she doesn't consider them wasted, but earned) working as a seamstress after her husband left her for a richer woman. She'd spent her twenties picking up the pieces of his debt and being the caretaker of her younger sister. After her sister married, Luci felt as if a muzzle was lifted from her mouth. She could breathe and be free again. She could spend money on herself again. She could eat pastries and watch the little girls chase the pigeons in the park again. But with what money? Luci loved superficial things – and she could never get enough of it. This weeks skirt that she bought would not even be worn before she set her eyes on the next one. And before the next one was made, she would have already decided it was boring and she needed shoes to compliment it. Sewing made her no money, and she was too old to be married to a rich man (Rich Vicomtes, for example, who doted on young dolls like Christine Daae). No man wanted a poor, divorced woman, and the ones who do did want them, (and lets be honest) were old. So, unlike the poor teenagers who are tricked out of their train tickets and coats and forced into prostitution, Luci offered herself to her Madam. A brief interview later (lift up your skirts, let's see your best come hither grin, we waive responsibility of your pregnancy and have the right to exorcise you from the house should you give birth or let a man live here), Luci was eagerly accepted.

Luci never knew she had such a talent for sex. When she was with her husband, she enjoyed it, but that was all. Sometimes she felt it to be a bit of a chore when she was tired and achy and he'd be sweatily pressed against her, but she didn't mind it. But she never went outside of the norms of what was expected of a wife in bed, and her husband never complained. When she arrived at the whorehouse, she didn't know what to expect, so the first night, the Madam instructed her to watch another girl entertain a guest. Of course, the guest had to approve that Luci could stay and watch. That week, Luci learned many things. Silly things. Like her husband had had a crooked dick, for example, which, since his penis was the only one Luci had seen in her entire life, came as quite a shock when she saw a straight one. Other things, like most men aren't that creative, yet the ones that are are usually sick in the head or pedophiles or both, were less shocking. The most popular names requested by men to cry out during sex were "Daddy" and "Master" (not surprising), and balding men have the best stamina. Luci found all this quite titillating. She kept her own notebook of her favorite things to do, and often came up with lewd and fun games to play with her customers while they were naked in bed. In fact, her room was the only one that often burst with hysterical laughter. Genuine, hysterical laughter, for Luci didn't take herself too seriously, and that was her charm. If she cut herself somehow or a knife was pressed too closely against her bosom, she'd shrug it off as if the blood were sweat and she'd give you a kiss on the forehead for it. She wouldn't allow you to apologize profusely because apologies seemed so insincere coming from a man who had to sneak out through the backdoor so his wife could not hear him stirring. Luci rarely took offense to anything, and she found everything humorous, an irritating trait had it been bestowed on anyone else, but laughter, when radiated form Luci, was absolutely infectious. She had an awkward, loud, high-pitched laugh. The sound trickled down her vocal chords and sounded like a string of coo's from the owl shot out of a machine gun. You, and all those around you, would find it most difficult to suppress a grin, if not laugh at the laugh you just heard.

That was how Erik met her. Not at a whorehouse, but in the streets, as she was laughing at a drunk man who'd removed his pants at the sight of Luci and her fellow whore to reveal a semi-erect penis with a large gold ring around it. Luci and her companion were laughing rambunctiously, holding their stomachs with one hand and pointing at the drunkard's ringed peen with the other. Luci's laugh stopped Erik in his tracks and peer out from the shadows. What he was doing in the street and why he was there was not important – you want to know what he thought when he saw her.

He thought what every man thinks when they see two fake "ladies" laughing with their mouths uncovered – _whores_. But he saw her face too, and she was looking straight at him. She had green eyes and a mean pout. Collarbones jutted out of her bodice and held up a long, almost swanlike neck. Dark hair, gloved hands, ladylike lashes sitting above an unladylike smile. Yes, she smiled at him, and then raising one of her gloved little hands, she waved, as if to say "it's safe. I see you." He was not in the mood (as he almost never is for whores), and declined with a tip of his hat.

However he did remember her, and the utter lack of disgust on her face when she caught him staring. He was curious about the laugh, the hair, the mouth, and the company. He had been lonely without Christine. The funny thing was, Erik felt as if he had been forced to give up his pet when he let her go. He had terrible nightmares about her missing him and being miserable about it. He never once, contrary to popular belief, felt bad for himself. After all, he had been conditioned his whole life to living with rejection and unpleasant "humanness". He knew he would survive if Christine chose Raoul. He felt terrible that the reality of life was that she couldn't live with him and be happy. But again, he was prepared for that too. He had enough money to keep himself happy till his death, but he would never feel that _humanness_ again.

Erik was also quite good at stalking, or perhaps, "discovering where one lived with very little effort" would be the kinder description of his talent. He located this peculiar girl with very little effort, since Paris only had one whorehouse whose girls had the audacity to feign ladyship by wearing gloves. That was at Madam Jacqui's. It was a weekday night, and the party had just begun to spin when Erik sent Jules in with a bag of money and a note for the old woman with the dark red rouge pattered too harshly on her cheeks. From the outside, he could hear her yelling a name, and a bustle of a heavily heeled feet trotting down the stairway with glee.

"Costumer? A où?"

"Outside, 'Uci, he paid in advance, so be sweet on 'im."

"Aw, Maman Jacqui, am I ever not sweet?"

A snort, another bustling sound, and then heals on the porch steps.

"Hello? There's nobody out here!"

The footsteps turned back towards the door, and then as if by some inkling of intuition, she swung her legs over the railing and leapt into the grass. Sure enough, her mysterious caller was waiting for her.

He expected her to be homelier up close, but he was disappointed. Simply taller, less hysterical perhaps due to the lack of peen, and a bit rosier than before. Her eyes studied him innocently and without suspicion (from hard practice no doubt), and then she broke into a smile and extended her hand most generously.

"How do you do, Monsieur?"

He looked at her ungloved, harsh fingers (scars. Seamstress?), and took them gently in his. He did not bring them to his lips, as he found it vile to do so to a hand where he had not seen washed prior to his arrival.

"Would you like to come in?" She gestured towards the lighted porch invitingly. Her fingers unfurled in a bawdy, yet still lovely manner and she nearly giggled. He didn't understand why he found her laughter so amusing.

"No, thank you," He said.

Here is where I should describe the wonder he caused in her when he opened his mouth. But I will save this for later.

"Then – what do you have in mind?"

"A conversation," he said.

Luci frowned internally. She had no love for conversations. Ninety-five percent of the time the "conversations" came form impotent men with sick fantasies who wanted to live out their gag-reels through an exploration of words. She wondered if this man was impotent or ready to confide his life's tragedy in her, but either way, she wasn't in the mood.

Yesterday, he wasn't in the mood, and today, she wasn't.

He could tell by her blank expression that she was not the conversing type of whore, so with a wave of his hand (I, too, shall explain her reaction to his hands later), dismissed the thought entirely.

"Nevermind," he said suddenly. His temper was quick and this made her insides jump with glee. "This was a mistake."

Luci held up her hands in alarm while laughing heartily, "Wait! Don't be offended Mr….Monsieur…"

"G."

"Monsieur G. Let "G" be Good-natured and come back another night. Or I shall look for you, if you tell me where to look. I have too much ale in me to give you the attention you deserve." She winked because she could not control it. Force of habit, but she regretted it immediately. He did not seem like the type of man who enjoyed puns and winks alike.

He was silent for a moment. She could not read his face, as it was well hidden in the shadow of his fedora, but she felt his body soften a moment.

"I'll find you," he said. "_If _I change my mind."

He turned and walked into the street, and Luci caught a glimpse of his pale alabaster hand peeping out of his cloak. Under the street lamps, he looked almost superhuman; he was tall – extremely, abnormally tall, and he moved like fluid across the pavement. He looked to Luci like a swift, languid panther whose muscles were tensed to strike, whose vast limbs, armed with strength, were cruel, fierce and warning of death. She had all the reason to shudder; yet her palms began to sweat from excitement. The farther away her walked, the more she anticipated for his return. Monsieur G. No doubt an acronym for his real name. Monsieur … Good. Monsieur…Gallop. Monsieur…Gob. Luci wouldn't waste your time making lists, so she walked up the porch and back into the boisterous horde within.


	3. Chapter 3

It was nearly five in the morning and Luci was still awake. To her right (and half on top of her) was a snoring man, lying face down in the pillow. To an outsider it looked as though he was dead and encapsulated Luci with his limp arm. Luci pulled herself from under him carefully enough not to wake him. Not that he was wakeable, the miserable drunk. She tried to remember if he'd ejaculated or not, but her head felt a bit blurry. Better safe than sorry. Reaching for her nightgown, Luci left the bed in a hurry and entered the tiny adjacent room.

It looked like a bathroom really. Damp wooden panels were poorly secured on the walls. Centipedes were running amuck everywhere, and Luci wasn't wearing her slippers. In the middle of a room was a wooden pail, the kind a child squats to shit over. Lucy lifts up her gown and squats over it, pulls out the sponge and begins cleaning her insides dutifully. She winces at the uncomfortable pressure and the rough edges of the sponge, but proceeds with determined fervor. At least this was the only thing in her life that she did out of duty. She looks down at the soapy water and tries to determine if it looks clouded enough to be the accumulation of all the semen that could have been inside her, and decides it's the room is too dark to decide. Unsatisfied, she scrubs a little more, to the point where it really begins to sting, before tossing the sponge back into the bucket. She couldn't beat anyone in an arm wrestling, but from the practice she got from squatting, she'd put money on herself for quad wrestling.

There's nothing interesting about this except for the small fact that while Luci cleansed herself (ha!) with a dead-eyed stare, she was looking straight at a Faust poster—one that featured a wide-eyed, blonde prima donna praying towards an omnipresent Mephistopheles figure glowing red above her. Luci let her nightgown fall down her knees and stepped over the pail to get a better look at the poster. I forgot to mention: Luci reads. In fact, she was probably the smartest whore in Paris. Not only did she read when she was married, she _still_ reads. It was something she hid from Madam Jacqui and (thank god) all men. In fact, Luci has read Faust, the play, but she's never seen Faust, the Opera. She wondered if it would be worth a week's work to purchase tickets for the show. The answer was ultimately no because she would have to go alone, and no one (not even patrons) went to the Opera Garnier alone. Still, she saw no harm in saving the date in case she changed her mind, so she took note of when it was playing, and went back to her sleeping lumberjack.

Luci crawled into the loungechair next to the big, canopy bed and propped her head against its arm. She could smell the cigars, booze, and sweat in her hair, but she didn't mind. She didn't pay any mind to her lumberjack or his hairy back. She looked down at her bony hands and remembered the other bony hands that belonged to Monsieur Gay-O-Lighty or something or another. Luci had seen hands with two fingers, covered in lesions, for just arms with no hands, but Mr. G's hands were downright special. His fingers were much too long for his palms. Spider-legs sprouting from his wrists, those hands were! It must have been terribly difficult jack off with hands like that. She almost felt pity.

She wondered what he wanted to "converse" about. Perhaps that he'd be shot in the face and is so ugly that no women would have him? But that was ridiculous. Any man with money (as he so obviously does), could have a woman. Even if it wasn't a whore. Especially if it wasn't a whore. There were plenty of respectable ladies out there who will marry for fortune. It was, after all, a part of the respectable game.

She began to wish she'd accepted the offer. She didn't need the money as much as she needed the intrigue, and by the sound of his voice, which Luci can only describe as _different_, he had some intriguing things to say. But she took the safer route, with her lumberjack (real name Will), three time comer and a two time drunk lard, face down in her bed. As if flattered she remembered his name, Mr. Will snorted into the pillow.

Luci looked out the window, across the street, and into the house of another early riser. A young man, strapping on his breeches and snapping his suspenders, gathers his coat, his hat, and his books. He couldn't be more than twenty-three. Brown hair, straight nose, distinguished and looking. He orders his tired maid to take care of his house while he is gone, and shoots out the door without a glance. Luci knows this man but her eyes do not show it. She merely keeps looking out the same window, into the same room, where the maid, whose fat ankles could barely hold her body up, treats herself to a piece of chocolate from the dresser and rapidly falls asleep in the master's bed.

Luci's ears perk at rapping noise at the door downstairs. She waits until she hears the creaking of the door, an exchange of words, a jingle, and Luci gets up and goes to work.


	4. Chapter 4

Luci told time by the shades of the street. She listened to the voices around her and decided if it was time to rise or sleep. The beauty of her profession was that she didn't need order in her life, the only repetition being the rapping of a fist against her door, at which point it meant "time for work."

She had just sent off that same young man from the morning. Not because he'd been screwing her that long, but because he'd paid for the time to stare at her. And there's nothing sadder than the look in a dumb lad's eye when he's fallen in love with a whore. All the while she pretended to sleep, she let him gaze at her with stars in his brown eyes like a dog with the severest form of separation anxiety. Luci wasn't one to refuse the good money, but pretending to sleep was much harder than actually sleeping. She felt his hot breath against her cheek and held perfectly still. She knew this is how he wished to see her, precious and silent, like the wife he would sound be forced to take. She was happy that she could do him this favor, but today was different. A knock came at her door. Her young lad jumped up and yelled at the intruder and was answered by Madam Jacqui's scratchy holler. She was telling him his time had to be prematurely cut short, because Luci needed time to rest. The lad argued he would pay more but was refused. Luci pretended to wake, stroked the boy's head tenderly, and reassured him he could come back tomorrow. There could have been no dog with a lower hanging tail.

Luci went downstairs when he was gone and was pulled into Madam Jacqui's office by a heavy hand.

"Sit down, Luci."

Luci sat down in the lounge chair and threw her right leg abruptly over the arm of the chair. This was her signature move, the one that put off all the nice boys and excited well-mannered men. She lit a cigarette and looked at the Madam expectantly.

The Madam lifted her wrinkled hands to her chin and scratched it, like a man. Luci had joked that Madam Jacqui had once been a man. She resembled a man. She had the broad shoulders, the long torso, and the faintest hint of a hair above the corners of her upper lip. She shook hands like a man, did business like a man, and knew how to talk to the girls like a gentleman. She provided the security to these poor whores that their own fathers did not.

"I'm concerned about a new fellow who's been asking for you."

"Oh?" Luci pulled the smoke between her lips and exhaled before inhaling. "Who is he?"

"A freak of nature. You will have to see for yourself."

"Will he pay?"

"An unheard of amount of money for a wine he has not tasted," Madam Jacqui licked her lower lip subconsciously, "Even for my best wine."

"You know I am an equal opportunist, Madam."

"Tell me about him, after."

Madam Jacqui motioned for Luci to follow her out of her office to the guest room, a gaudy, red, crushed velvet draped box that resembled the inside of a cheap jewelry box. Gold tassels dangled from the curtains, and candles perched from every flat surface. It could almost pass for some fantasy vampire palace, had it not been so obvious that the color and materials were strewn together purposely to distract you from the tastelessness.

"Here she is, Monsieur." The Madam's voice slivered in bluntly. "She will show you to her room."

Next to the piano that couldn't play, stood the man who Luci had been thinking about in her sleep: Mister G. Capeless and hatless, he appeared more human up close. More vulnerable. She looked him up and down, subtly, and then caught his eyes.

His eyes appeared to droop at the ends, and this made him look sad. But upon closer inspection, they looked quite awake, hyper-aware even. They were dark, deeply buried in his head. They were gold, then hazel, then green, depending on where they caught the light. They were wondering, questioning yet resolute. They were knowing and cold. They were _beautiful._

This is the moment Luci realizes the mysterious Monsieur G is wearing a mask. It had been shielded by the fedora the other night.

Luci had entertained theatrical men before. Sometimes they wanted to play Opera Ghost, and covered their face with black silk to steal Luci from her spotlight. Or they didn't trust her with their identities. No matter. Even if he was hiding something hideous behind that mask, she's been with acid-burned, sun-burned, flesh-freshly-sowed-onto-the-cheek men before. She knew Madam Jacqui's "freak of nature" comment was not directed at his face. Everything about this man, his gestures, voice, appearance, were not entirely of this world. Somewhere in the plane of metaphysics, there is a name for how he made her feel.

Regardless of how she felt, she knew how to act. All men, she was convinced, were the same. They come in all kinds of absurd forms, but in the sack, what they really wanted was to lay their heads in her bosom and have their hair stroked by her hand. It was about attention.

"Monsieur G," Luci extended her hand delightfully as he took it and kissed the back of it this time. "Please follow me."

"I prefer to stay right here, Miss."

She smiled politely. "Alright. Would you like something to drink?"

He shook his head slightly.

"Then please, have a seat." Luci gestured to the crushed velvet red couch against the floor length curtains of the same material.

He sat, leaned back, and crossed one leg over the other in a fluid motion, but his eyes never left hers.

Luci was having a difficult time closing the space between them. She considered sitting across from him, and then reneged and plotted herself firmly to his left, leaving a good half-person's distance between his leg and her knee. She leaned in, respectfully, because she had a sense that this man wasn't asking to be fondled, and said truthfully, "I'm glad you changed your mind."

He didn't move, but his eyes softened a little. "I would have come sooner."

She was surprised at the warmth of his tone. She wasn't expecting reciprocation so soon. "Why didn't you?"

"Affairs."

"Of the heart?" She joked.

"Yes."

The honesty stunned her, too. She was immediately aware that the mask had nothing to do with concealing his identity.

"Tell me about her."

"Is that what the other men ask of you? To listen to their woes, trials and heartache?"

"Rarely," she replied after a moment of hesitation. "They mostly prefer _the doing_ over the asking."

He smiled. "Men are such simple creatures, aren't they?"

She laughed her infectious laugh. "Why say that, Monsieur? You are of their kind."

"Am I?"

"Are you not?"

"I'm not so sure, anymore."

"Would your affair of the heart have anything to do with the uncertainty?"

He shrugged, opened his hands, and placed his left arm upon the back of the couch. "Maybe."

Luci looked at his arm and those long fingers, and she couldn't resist the chance to feel their boniness under her skin. She lifted her hand and cupped his hand in hers carefully, as to not alarm the spider attached to the wrist and frighten it away.

"Your hands are so cold."

"Yes."

"Did I offend you?"

"No, not yet."

She moved closer to him so that she could peer deep into his sad eyes.

"Who are you, really?"

"It's a bit too early to ask, don't you think, Luci?"

"Aren't you full of delicious melancholy?"

He looked at her, genuinely confused.

She shook her head. "Forgive me. I haven't met with someone interesting in so long; I'm a bit overwhelmed."

"Likewise."


	5. Chapter 5

Her fingers had reached his shoulder now, and the gaunt blades gave away how terribly thin they were.

"You must speak of her."

He had no intention to, yet he couldn't help but to do it. "What do you want to know?"

"Start from the beginning," Luci said. "Start from the very first moment you met her."

The man leaned forward into his hand and rubbed his temples with his thumb and middle finger. He made it seem like he did not want to speak of it, but despite his reluctance, something danced in his eyes at the thought of that girl. Luci could not decide whether it was he or the story that were irresistible.

"I was her music teacher, and I fell in love with her."

"Oh, I see!" Luci's suppressed the urge to lean forward. "What is her name?"

He looked down at his hands and unclenched them. He stared into the face of the whore, the black-haired, unapologetic angel-face who prodded him and prodded him like a finger scooping caviar from a near empty jar, and he decided at that moment, there was no harm in saying it once.

"Christine."

It is true when they say, when you stop looking for _it_, _it_ finds you. _It_ can be disaster or fortune, a soul-mate or a murderer, but when you are least prepared, _it_ appears. Some people live their lives searching for _it_; others, like Luci, never thought of _it _until _it _was sitting on her couch. There was only one "Christine" in Paris who inspired the wrath of her voice teacher, and it ended with a chandelier crash during her last performance. It would explain everything.

Luci wasn't about to chase it away by revealing that she knew who her caller was.

"Why did you love her?" Luci asked.

He shrugged in a wonderful, unabashed way. "I suppose because she was the only woman who I cared to love."

"She could not have been the only one."

"Ah, but she was."

He gaze fell away. His thoughts had sped quickly into the past and nestled themselves in the folds of soothing gray fog, and she could read those stormy eyes even less now that he'd regressed. The shoulders seemed to slump and the head bowed slowly. Yet, in all his melancholy remembrance, he did not seem sad. It was the _will_ in his voice that Luci gladly sank her teeth into.

"Will you win her back?" She said flatly, expecting no answer.

Her question was met with a quick retort. "I would kill myself if I'd ever considered it."

"Oh, I could never love a man scorned," Luci said to herself and quickly regretted for he had heard her. She covered her mouth with an unsure hand and shrugged apologetically.

His yellow eyes stayed unblinking for an uncomfortable moment. "And why couldn't you love such a man?"

"May I speak truthfully?"

"Only if you promise to only speak honestly for the entire length of time that I am here. There's one thing that I loathe more than terrible singers and that's terrible liars."

What sounded threatening actually relieved her. How refreshing it was to speak frankly without having to fondle a man's penis or fill him with whiskey until he forgets his own name? She had never spoken truth soberly or to a sober man, and it felt better than being a virgin again.

"Well," She began, "to be refuted in love is to be wounded. Scorned men are like beaten animals and they run rampant in the streets of Paris. That is why most of them come here, unless they are too 'dignified' to pay to lay with someone. Then it becomes their poor maids' burdens, and that, if you ask me, is _worse _than paying for a woman. Secondly, scorned men are irrational, and irrationality leads to poor decisions. Do you even wonder why so many Barons or Dukes were engaged to a woman only to be scandalously reengaged to another a month later? It is not because they don't want their first fiancees, Monsieur, for if a man first agrees to marry a woman, he agrees because he wishes to see her naked. However, if he soon finds this dream will not become reality, he will immediately copulate with the next woman who will have him. It is ego, and a scorned man has a more inflated one than any creature on earth."

He looked at her with a mix of admiration and sympathy. "But my dear, suppose we all kill ourselves like poor young Werther, there would be no men left in the world to keep you in business."

There was no malice in his voice, but he was testing her. "Thank you for reminding me, Monsieur G. How could I have forgotten Werther, the most vain, scorned lover of them all?"

"He died of love. That was not his fault."

"Of course it was his fault. Any man who wants to keep a woman to himself regardless of her feelings is at fault."

"And what if the woman is too young and naive to know what she wants?"

"That is impossible. Even a girl of five knows which uncle to bat her lashes at when she wants a knee to sit on. 'Nativity' is a term created by a scorned man to soften the blow."

His laughter erupted so suddenly that she jumped a little. The guttural sound seemed to be coming from the walls, and a coldness tickled her spine.

"Did I amuse you?"

He rose slowly before her and looked down into her face, casting a large shadow against the wall behind her that seemed crooked and deathly and still. If he were to hit her right now, she would accept, for Luci was used to these temperaments of men and a little sting never hurt. She had the sick feeling she had peered through the keyhole of this man's life, and he would either shoot the handle or give her the key. His choice, of course.

He was bending over her now, and his large hands came to grasp her sharp shoulders and lift her out of the chair.

"I knew there was something fearless in you when I saw you laughing at that drunk imbecile that night." His voice was soft and urgent. "Tell me, what does an educated woman with your wit do to keep entertained in this place?"

"It's honest work," She said steadily. "And it pays."

"You should find a better paying job when your talents lay beyond the bedroom!"

He was genuinely angry. His fingertips, which were gripping harder and harder at her collar, had become whiter than stone.

She shrunk away. Unfulfilled potential was her greatest fear. She did not think of it ever because it weighed heavily on her. She woke up to that feeling and ate to it every morning, noon and evening. But she needn't be reminded of it, because she was too old, too ruined, too stubborn to change.

"Leave me be, Monsieur, for I do not even know why you care." She tore herself away and crossed her arms firmly. She tried to convey confidence and strength without defiance. She wondered how everything had been a game minutes ago and how quickly it had ended.

"Most women are either kind and stupid or evil and shrewd. If it were not that way, we would be better off."

"We, or _you_, Monsieur?"

He slipped on his hat and cloak and made his way to the door.

"Exactly," he said.


	6. Chapter 6

***

_(Concurrently)_

***

Follow her, follow her. Raoul kept his head low. He was close, so close! Close enough to touch the small of her back, but he must keep his head low. He kept focus on the bustle of her skirt and the green bow that sat on her arse. Jostling up and down, and what a beautiful bow!

Where was she headed? That was the question. He had followed her past the Opera House and the Louvre, and now she was panting as heavily (in her ladylike manner) as ever. She stopped. For a moment. She touched her cheek. Did she forget something? _Please don't turn around now. We were doing so well. Let me follow you to the end!_

And she didn't turn at all! She kept on walking. They were in front of the Sainte Chapelle now. Oh, they should've be married here! Why didn't he think of it? Why didn't he marry her right away? This was a lovely chapel, yes. Raoul admired it, but only form the corner of his eye, for fear that he'd lose her. And he mustn't let that happen – not again!

They made a loop around the Chapel and the courtyard. He slid silently behind a horse-drawn carriage and watched her pause at the steps. Her head seemed focused, but her body seemed lost. Yes, she was like a woman possessed, but not by the demented Angel this time. No, she wanted something and she wanted it badly.

As if she heard him, her gaze fell in his direction. Raoul shrank back. He didn't want to be discovered, not now. But she did not see him. She was looking at the carriage, and she walked up to it and exchanged words with the driver. Raoul didn't recognize either any of it and was relieved. No need to fervently hide. He jumped into the next cab he saw, and followed suit.

They were back at the Opera when her carriage stopped and so did his heart. It could not be! Not here -- not the rue Scribe or the gate, or the -- Oh, there she was! She'd reached for the keys! She was locking the gate behind her before hurrying into the dark.

If he had learned anything from their most recent ordeal, it was to be prepared. He had brought his own key, just for this purpose: the purpose of preventing a terrible mistake!

He slipped through the gates with baited breath. Ugh, the smell was terrible! But he arrived at the lake in time catch her hanging the lantern at the tip of the boat.

_Christine!_

He wanted to shout madly. But he didn't want her to panic. Panic meant poor decisions, and poor decisions lead to _him_. He slid into the water as silently as possible and swam behind her. He stayed far enough behind her so that she would not hear his strokes. For as long as he could see the green glow of her light, he knew she was safe.

She rowed steadily, his poor Christine! She seemed so tired! How could she not be, when she's been plagued by such unfortunate events? But wait -- something was wrong. Why had she stopped rowing?

He wadded in the water. She must have been lost. Erik had taken her down many times, but he'd always been the one steering. Yes, she must be lost. So lost, poor dear! He was so filled with sympathy, he did not feel the cold sting of the water against his eyes, his hands and his feet.

When she began rowing again, his heart nearly burst with love. _Christine! _Once again, he chased the unblinking light, the halo in the darkness. Her light was so warm and pure, and he forgot how his arms grew stiff as his legs grew limp. He was young, and he would swim far.

_But, Christine, why can't you row faster so we can reach the shore? Why wait our lives to get on with our lives!_

He was getting very cold now, so cold that he wasn't sure how well he swam anymore. The water, like a thousand bits of ice, nipped him as he swam. He didn't seem to be getting closer, but the light was still there and it warmed his soul. Faithfully, he followed.

His adrenaline died slowly, and he began to pant without embarrassment. The space echoing with water was now filled with his splashing and gasping.

"Christine!"

He couldn't care if she saw him anymore. Timing was less important than life. He swam towards her with large strokes and called to her with hollow cries.

"Sweetheart! Look at me!"

To his dismay, she started to row again.

"Stop!" He pleaded. "My love! I'm tired!"

He hadn't realized he'd begun weeping until his tears ran hot streams down his face, and he suddenly wondered why his youth was too often exhausted on chasing dreams.

He wouldn't be able to swim much further. Still, no begging nor sound seemed to wake her from her stupor.

The first time he'd seen her as a woman, she was sitting in her dressing room without her shoes. Her toes played absently with a split on the floor, and even then she looked unattainable. The glow of triumph from still emanated from her in that little room, just as it had from the stage. It was in that moment that he realized he would love her no matter what she did or where she was.

Nothing had changed in him. The lantern illuminated her stoic silhouette, and in her small body, there was a resoluteness and power. He wanted her more than ever.

Oh my love, please turn around! Let me see you!

Slowly, She did turn.

But he was suddenly afraid.

She turned in the kind of haughty silence that one would feel at the sight of a ghost. And for a moment, he thought it was one. He wasn't so sure that he'd followed Christine into the carriage or if she'd switched places with someone else. Maybe he did not look hard enough. He held his dull breath while waiting for a yellow skull to greet him.

Imagine his relief when he saw Christine!

She smiled at him with her ecstatic eyes and yielded trembling arms to him.

But when he began to reach for her, she withdrew. The boat recoiled with her and waded gently as she unhooked the lantern and crept towards the edge.

"Put out the light, and then put out the light."

His beloved called to him as she waved the flame from left to right.

"But once I put out thy light, I cannot give it vital growth again."

Raoul was crying in the dark.

* * *


	7. Chapter 7

Note: The Christine/Raoul scene occurs the same time as the Erik/Luci scene. It may help to go back and re-read the first chapter, where it is revealed Christine had killed Raoul in vain. Chapter 6 was an exploration of how he died.

* * *

"Well that was very brief," Madame Jacqui's voice was vile and unsentimental. "I haven't seen money spent like that over anyone in this house, not even you."

The stout woman lifted Luci's chin and examined her face from side to side. "Looks like he wasn't too rough on you. Well, I'm glad. I was worried he was 'of the crazy' when I saw how much he'd paid for the hour. To be honest, I almost told him to shoo. I've had girls get killed before, and no amount of money can make up for our loss in the end. What's the matter with you? Don't tell me he was your father!"

"That's just silly, Mame." Luci threw her shawl over her shoulders. "You know he's not my father."

"It's a popular fantasy that the girls all have here, you know -- that their father's will come to their rescue. Fortunately, I _only_ take volunteers. But everyone in this damn house wants to sleep on their asses while eating a day's worth. Nobody wants to work."

"I'm too good at my job to not want to work."

Madame Jacqui was pleased. "What a smart rat you are. I should expect you to receive him again and often then?"

"I can't say. He doesn't seem the type to wear the same shoe twice."

"Well, then you get him new shoes girl, and quickly!"

***

* * *

Raoul was dead. Yes, he's dead. He's gone. And it was all Christine's fault.

***

* * *

Luci dreamt she was sweating profusely, and two hands were upon her areolae, messaging them, pulling them, making them hard and prickly. They grabbed and stroked her, milled themselves down her stomach to her vagina and inserted themselves with force, at which point, she arched and was flipped over carefully, like an egg in a pan, and he took her from behind.

She had no doubt in her mind whose hands they were since they'd been so bony that they had hurt her. But she found it pleasurable, nonetheless -- he wasn't her usual cup of tea, but what was different always felt good.

***

* * *

Raoul was dead. He was dead. He was dead.

Christine paced in Erik's kitchen, stopping only to eye the fresh loaf of bread on the dining table before she snatched it and took a bite so hard, she bit her herself. She sucked the blood right out of her lip, and took another bite before pacing about. Blood and bread: delicious.

Raoul was dead. What to do?

She had been waiting for Erik for hours, and it was late. So late that she wasn't entirely awake anymore. She stopped to search for a mirror in the kitchen, but of course, there were none. How _could _she forget. She opened a cabinet and pulled out a navy porcelain plate and checked her reflection.

Still lovely. In a desperate sort of way.

A noise came from the living room, and she dropped the plate. Shards of porcelain flew everywhere at her feet, and she clamped her mouth with her hand, as if her screaming would make it any more obvious that she was in the kitchen.

His shadow slowly appeared at the door and peered in. He had been outside in the rain and thoroughly drenched. He looked at her, perplexed, before pushing himself away from the doorway and disappearing again.

She followed him in to the living room and watched him drape his wet garments over the coat hanger before sitting onto the couch and gesturing for her to sit in front of him.

"Is the honeymoon over?"

Her brow furrowed and her lips pursed, but she held it in. She'd grown wary of his snide remarks and they did not amuse her. It was so like him to be kind one moment and cruel the next. His ambiguous moods kept her on her toes, and sometimes it was even charming, but it hurt all the same.

"Forgive me, but I had to see you."

Her eyes wandered to his mud-splattered shoes. She had never seen him in muddied shoes before. Perhaps he'd cared less for his appearance after she left him. Perhaps, he missed her, too.

She tucked herself into his blanketing shadow. There was comfort to be found where she was looked down upon but never down at, and she was warm in this cold place.

She thought she saw him tremble, but it was she who had been clenching her hands so tightly that she shook. He sat atrociously still, with his right hand draped over a cushion and the left moving to lift her chin to to him.

Any gesture -- a cough, a laugh, a whimper -- would have calmed her, but no. He gazed down upon her in a naked silence that shamed her down to the bone.

Alas, she raised her head in search of an expression in those yellow eyes, and to her surprise, they were gentle and perhaps, forgiving?

"Sweetheart," he said softly. "Where is your husband?"

She kept in mind that despite being a terrible liar, she was capable of working around the truth.

"He's gone," she answered. "And I can't find him."

"There's nebulosity in your voice, and I'm not sure I like it." He said as he lifted her chin with his hand and ran his thumb across the cut in her lower lip.

She guessed that _nebulosity_ meant something bad.

"Explain."

"Well there's not much to it. I left the house yesterday morning, and he was gone when I returned. He took nothing with him except his wallet, and no one has seen him since."

He released her and leaned back pensively. "I suppose you think I'm responsible for his disappearance."

"Oh no," she laughed awkwardly to herself, "I would never suspect you." He shot her a look. "I mean, it wouldn't be like you -- to be so untimely."

"I had no idea you knew me so well."

_I killed him, yes I did. _

Christine moved and sat next to him. She could smell the faint scent of ambergris from his sleeve that she'd never smelt before. He had a curious look in his eye that irked her, but she shoved the feeling aside.

"Are you not pleased to see me?" She asked, praying for a kind answer. But he shook his head, and moved away, dragging the carrot of hope away with him. She frowned, brokenly, and asked him again.

"Are you _glad _to see me?"

"I will be glad to see you out, my dear," was his lackadaisical reply.

***

* * *

Erik saw her to the Rue Scribe. In the second that he unlocked the gates, she wrapped her arms around him and pressed her face febrilely into his chest. "I love you so terribly," she said. At this point he could barely bridle his heart, and he placed one arm around her waist and the other above her head and left just enough space so that they would not touch. The feathered moment was over quickly, and he's hands were at his sides again before she pulled away and ran off.


End file.
